


There is a Shortage in the Blood Supply (But There is No Shortage of Blood)

by willgrahamchops



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Bloodplay, Control Issues, Dirty Talk, M/M, Pining, Power Dynamics, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-11
Updated: 2013-03-11
Packaged: 2017-12-04 22:46:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/715946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/willgrahamchops/pseuds/willgrahamchops
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“You wish he'd do this to you,” Sebastian says, voice harsh with arousal. “Cut you up. Think he'd kill you?”</i>
</p><p> </p><p>Jim commandeers a honeymoon suite while he waits for Sherlock to make a move.</p>
            </blockquote>





	There is a Shortage in the Blood Supply (But There is No Shortage of Blood)

**Author's Note:**

> Every time I try to write fluff it turns into really weird porn. Title from International Small Arms Traffic Blues by The Mountain Goats.

The honeymoon suite is risky, but not as risky as operating from home. And Jim takes precautions. He's not too worried, because nobody but Sherlock would ever think to look for him here, and he's keeping Sherlock busy. That's the entire point.

He absently refreshes John Watson's blog, but there's nothing new, so it's back to answering emails. 

Sebastian watches him from the bed. He's restless, Jim knows, but there's nothing he can do about that right now. Left to his own devices Sebastian has disassembled, cleaned and reassembled his gun eight times in two days. Now he's reduced to watching Jim answer emails, scowling, kicking the sheets off the bed.

“You're gonna be pissed off when that falls in the water,” Sebastian says.

Jim glances at him, smiles, and turns on the jets. He dries his hands with a hand towel before returning to his keyboard. “You should get in,” he says.

Sebastian shakes his head. He doesn't dare suggest Jim get out instead, but Jim reads it on his face just the same. That gets frustrating sometimes. He can't hide anything.

“Just a moment,” Jim says, pressing the button to turn the jets immediately off again with his big toe. He's stretched across the jacuzzi, because if Seb's not getting in then he's determined to use the entirety of the space himself. Refresh again; still nothing. Should set up text alerts. Later. He shuts the laptop with a flourish and steps out, naked and dripping. Sebastian isn't even phased. Why's he always have to be so calm?

With no more cue than a lift of Jim's chin, Sebastian moves aside so Jim has room to flop face-first onto the bed, dramatically. Jim is going to be dramatic enough for the both of them.

“Still hasn't solved it,” he sighs. “He's just sitting around right now, I bet. Him and that doctor of his, so terribly _domestic_.” Jim has bugs – _had_ bugs – long before any of this, so he knows. Groceries and telly and cab rides. It's sickening.

Sebastian says, confident: “Don't worry. Tomorrow. He'll come 'round.” And _lord,_ but he's grown brave since moving from sniper to right-hand, talking down to Jim like that. Jim's had men killed for less. It sets his delicate heart aflutter.

He grins with teeth and makes a split-second decision. “Seb, darling,” he says, “be a dear and fetch your switchblade.”

Sebastian remains impassive aside from a quirk of his eyebrow, silently asking, _which one?_

“Ours,” Jim amends. 

Sebastian nods and rolls off the bed. Jim watches, watches the muscles ripple in his back as he bends for the suitcase, admires the scars crisscrossing his shoulders and disappearing into his trousers. He returns with knife, lighter, and alcohol, and sits on the edge of the bed once more. 

Jim quirks his lip. “Is this harassment in the workplace, d'you think?”

Not so long ago Seb would have hesitated to answer such a loaded question, but now he hums low in his throat and says, without a pause, “Definitely.”

Jim can't help but wriggle in excitement, further disrupting the bedclothes. Sebastian is just so _interesting_ now. And that's why he's Jim's right-hand – competent, yes, and loyal and deadly, but mostly interesting. The second most interesting person Jim knows.

He hears the click of the lighter, smells the isopropanol evaporating. He smirks – Seb's conditioned him, even if he never meant to. Jim is already half hard.

“Pull the comforter back up,” Sebastian says. He's watching Jim, assessing his reaction. Sometimes Jim will take orders, and sometimes he'll give Sebastian bruises for his trouble. Today he rewards Seb with a predatory smile and drags the comforter onto the bed. It's red, of course, or else it wouldn't be of use hiding the stains – everything in the suite is either white or red. Red roses on the bedside table, heart-shaped throw pillows. Fitting, Jim thinks, because this affair is nothing if not romantic.

He's barely taken a breath before Sebastian pins him to the comforter with the silent grace of a jungle cat, forearm across his chest, knife at his throat.

They remain frozen for a moment, and then Jim exhales and tilts his chin up, pressing into the knife, an offering.

“Damascus steel,” Sebastian breathes against his ear. “Sharpest in the world. Five nanometers thick.” And Jim knows this, knows this knife as well as Sebastian does, but he still loves to hear it. He presses, just a few millimeters, but Jim can feel it split the skin. “Cuts stainless steel like it's butter,” Sebastian says. “Imagine what it could do to you.”

“I don't have to,” Jim purrs. 

Seb's lips twitch and he drags the knife down Jim's chest. With steel this sharp it's difficult to touch without cutting, but Sebastian has been learning to steady his hands for most of his life. Jim is desperate to squirm under his touch. Sometimes he can't help himself, but he hasn't lost it tonight. Not yet.

Their eyes meet as the knife hovers under the soft flesh of Jim's abdomen. Jim shakes his head. “Make them visible,” he says.

This finally elicits a reaction from Sebastian, even if it's just a derisive snort, and the knife is at his throat once again. Jim swallows just to feel the edge.

“You think he'll appreciate them?” Sebastian asks. They're so close that Jim can smell him, masculine and unwashed – Jim didn't tell him to shower, so he didn't. He prefers Sebastian this way, a sharp counterpoint to Jim's lavender conditioner, his rose hip facial moisturizer, his cucumber-melon cuticle cream. Sebastian once mocked his rigorous hygiene routine, and Jim put him on a four-day stakeout to shoot a target who happened to be out of the country at the time.

Sebastian says, “This _is_ for him, isn't it?”

Jim smiles and manages to look dangerous even though he's the one under the knife. “Whatever do you mean?” He asks, voice saccharine. 

Sebastian indulges him, and Jim does love being indulged. What a brilliant partnership they have. “Sherlock,” he hisses. “Your little welcome party. You know he'll notice that you're hurt. He'd notice even under your clothes, but you want him to _see_ , don't you? Why's that?”

“Distraction,” Jim says immediately. “A red herring.”

“I don't think so,” Sebastian smiles. Sebastian's going to make him say it, Jim knows, but this is all part of the game.

“Just keeping him on his _toes_ ,” Jim insists, voice canting into sing-song. He can't help it when he's talking about Sherlock; he's just so _exciting_ – 

Without warning, Sebastian grips his hair and wrenches his head back, once again exposing his pale throat, and – _ah_ , there it is, the first cut, a bead of warmth drawn just below the junction of his jaw and neck. It's dangerous placement. That's why he keeps Seb around.

“You were saying?”

Jim smirks up at him through heavily-lidded eyes. “Gets me off,” he says, enunciating each word. But it's more than that, they both know.

Sebastian hums in agreement and runs the blunt side of the knife along the cut, coaxing droplets of blood to the surface, tugging at the damaged skin. “I wonder what he'll deduce about _you_ ,” he says. “Some sort of accident? Torture?”

He shudders at the thought. Jim's never been tortured, but he imagines it wouldn't work out so well for his captors.

Sebastian licks at Jim's jawline, almost but not quite where Jim wants him – it's unsafe, but _Sebastian_ is unsafe. “It's not a red herring,” Seb whispers. “Because you don't want him to get it wrong. You want him to know.”

Jim does. Desperately. Wants Sherlock to observe and to draw the correct conclusions, wants him to see and react. What would he feel? Disgust? Simple fascination, more likely. Nothing would please Jim more than to fascinate Sherlock the way Sherlock fascinates him.

“Stay still,” Sebastian orders. Jim's been grinding against his thigh, smearing precome all over Seb's Austin Reed trousers. Not that Seb will mind.

The second cut runs perpendicular to the first, ending with a flourish. Sebastian's face is set in concentration, lips tight. He breathes slowly. Jim loves this side of him, loves being reminded that Sebastian is professional killer, sculpted and honed for violence, and that he could end Jim's life with a flick of his wrist.

It's a rare occasion, Jim obeying anyone, but he does stay still. It's his own decision, thought, not just because Seb told him too, but because it also makes it more intense. He has no way to release the nervous energy coursing through him. Nowhere to look except Sebastian's face, the exquisite concentration as he carves into Jim's neck.

He's not gentle; he's not safe. Jim's skin is on fire and he's breathing heavily, light-headed, working hard to keep his eyes open. Sebastian digs deep. He traces over each cut several times and then presses each open with the blunt edge of the knife, and it's _agony_ , but Jim revels in it. He wonders if he'll need stitches – then he imagines Sebastian sewing him up with those steady hands, and he realizes he wouldn't mind.

“You wish he'd do this to you,” Sebastian says, voice harsh with arousal. “Cut you up. Think he'd kill you?”

“Wouldn't be as bloody gentle as _you_ are,” Jim grits out. It's a challenge, and Seb digs into the wound for his trouble. Jim groans.

After a few more seconds of silent absorption, Sebastian holsters the knife. “Done,” he says. He's quite pleased with himself.

Jim is flushed and panting, too cold from his damp hair, too warm from Seb's attentions. And finally, with Seb finished, he can move again. He squirms away his restlessness and then arches catlike into Sebastian's touch.

“Am I pretty now?” He drawls.

“Gorgeous,” Sebastian mutters against his collarbone. His mouth is just centimeters from the wound, and Jim is getting desperate. “Figure it out yet?” He asks.

Jim rolls his eyes with some effort. “Initials,” he says. “Predictable.”

Sebastian nods in agreement. “Predictable, and that's how he'll know it wasn't an accident.”

Jim smirks. His Seb can be so clever. 

He spends a careful moment watching Sebastian watch him. His dirty blonde hair hangs limp in his face, and he maintains eye contact as he dips two fingers into the hollow of Jim's throat, close, almost almost _almost_ – 

And there it is, that exquisite flare of pain as Seb finally brushes his fingertips across the bloody mess that is Jim's jawline.

Jim narrows his eyes and, just to be contrary, not because he cares, asks, “Did you even wash your hands?”

“Stop talking,” Sebastian says. He shoves two bloody fingers into Jim's mouth.

Jim tries for a witty comeback, but it's unintelligible, so he settles for suckling Seb's fingers clean. He's is quite familiar with the taste of blood, Seb's moreso than his own, but he's sampled both often enough that he can tell them apart – Jim could stand a bit more iron in his diet. He swallows around them. There's something cathartic about the whole ritual.

Sebastian smiles and shakes his head, painting Jim's lips red with his thumb, over and over, because Jim keeps licking it off. “Crazy fucker,” Seb says affectionately. 

Jim rolls his hips, a reminder – he was so engrossed that he'd nearly forgotten, but the need comes flooding back with the friction against Seb's thigh. He licks the blood off his lips, smirking at Sebastian's annoyed sigh. “Fuck me,” Jim demands.

Sebastian's only response is a curt nod. He's so very good at following orders.

He rolls off the bed to fetch lube and condoms, and Jim can't help but roll his eyes – Seb likes them; Jim doesn't. It seems a bit redundant at this point. Besides, Jim doesn't fuck other people, because other people are boring, and Sebastian _doesn't_ fuck other people, because he knows what Jim will do to him if he tries. 

“Spread your legs,” Sebastian says.

But Jim doesn't feel like it. He's bored with taking orders, so instead he pounces on Seb and pins him to the bed. He knows how easy it would be for Sebastian to push him off, to snap his wrists and grind his radius and ulna together until Jim screams in pain, begs him to stop, passes out – but he doesn't, and that control goes straight to Jim's cock.

“Spread _your_ legs,” he says.

Sebastian does it, but he rolls his eyes. For that Jim shoves the first finger in dry.

To his credit, Sebastian keeps a straight face, nothing but a harsh exhale marking his discomfort. Jim watches him closely for any though of disobedience and, finding none, adds a second finger, slick this time. He gives Seb only the most cursory preparation. Sebastian's a soldier – _Jim's_ soldier now, the best of the best – so he ought to be able to take it.

“Keep your mouth shut,” Jim hisses, lining himself up. It must hurt, but Sebastian presses back into him nonetheless. “No, second thought, don't. Talk to me.”

And he's not Sherlock but he's not stupid; Sebastian knows what Jim wants, because lately Jim only ever wants one thing. “Tomorrow,” Seb says, voice cracking on the second syllable as Jim shoves into him. The word is filthy with context. 

Tomorrow. “Oh, and it'll get him _thinking_ ,” Jim purrs.

“If you're lucky–” Seb gasps. “–He's as sadistic as you.”

Jim snaps his hips. Maybe, if he's lucky, there's something twisted lurking beneath that cold exterior – but if he's not, there's curiosity. That's a fact. And it's almost better, because he can imagine Sherlock bleeding him out with no particular remorse or pleasure, as if Jim is just another experiment.

“Or not,” Jim mutters, mostly to himself. It sets Sebastian grinning anyway.

“You'd like that too, wouldn't you,” Seb murmurs. He braces his arms against the headboard, a counterpoint to Jim's momentum. “Hurt him, but only once he begs for it.”

Jim's close, mouth open, panting into Seb's hair. He digs his perfectly manicured nails into Seb's wrists, wants to peel the skin away in strips. So many possibilities; so many delicate parts to break. 

He's light-headed, but the bleeding has slowed to a sluggish drip, trickling down his neck and onto Seb's face. Seb's hands are pinned; he won't wipe it off, and Jim wonders how long it would cling to his skin if he didn't let him clean up at all.

“C'mon,” Seb grunts. “ _Close_.”

Jim doesn't give a damn if he is, except that Seb digs his blunt nails into Jim's neck and that's what he needs to send him over the edge, that and Sebastian's muffled grunt of _Moriarty_ as he comes untouched.

Jim follows silently, shuddering and bleeding against Sebastian's chest.

For exactly one and a half minutes they lie bonelessly entangled, slick with sweat and blood and come, and then Jim kicks Sebastian out of the bed.

“Clean up,” he snaps, rolling off Sebastian. He sits up, cracks his neck. “Then wash my hair.”

Sebastian stands without comment and forcefully snatches the comforter out from under Jim.

Jim pouts. “No need to be fussy,” and he slides back into the tub while Sebastian dumps the comforter in the closet.

“Don't get in,” Jim says, tipping his head back to look at Sebastian upside down. His eyes are dark; blood congeals around his mouth. “And don't use the hotel shampoo. There's Jon Renau in the bag.”

“Sure. I can use hotel stuff for me, though, right? Yours smells like–”

“ _No_ ,” Jim says.

Sebastian sighs. So insubordinate, and now that Jim's come he doesn't find it cute anymore. “I'm fucking rank,” he says. “You've gotta let me wash up.”

Jim only raises an eyebrow. “I hope you brought sutures.”

After the bath but before the dressings, Jim admires the wound in the mirror. Sebastian could have been a painter, he can tell just from the feeling of it. Deep, delicate, and–

Jim's eyes light up. He squeals in delight the moment he sees it. 

He turns to Seb, who is leaning against the towel rack with his arms crossed, and kisses him full on the mouth. “You're brilliant,” Jim all but moans, wriggling as Sebastian wraps his arms around him. “Bloody fantastic; you can bathe if you want; _whatever_.”

“That good?” Sebastian asks.

“Wank me off while you stitch it,” Jim says emphatically.

Sebastian snorts. 

Jim means it, though; Seb's ambidextrous; he can do it. He says as much, twisting in Sebastian's grip to get another look in the mirror. 

Clean and elegant but open, not much blood since the bath, two letters in sharp relief against the stubble dotting his jaw. Initials.

 _SH_.

Twenty-two hours later, Sherlock is very, very confused.


End file.
